


Night Closes In

by EnchantingWriting



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Shameless (US), Spider-Man - All Media Types, WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Shameless Fusion, Child Neglect, Divorce, Drug Addiction, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Shameless (US), Intern Peter Parker, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Peter Parker, Past Child Abuse, Peter Parker Speaks Russian, Peter Parker is Bucky Barnes's Biological Child, Peter Parker is Natasha Romanov's Biological Child, Peter Parker is Trying His Best, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Poor Peter Parker, Post-Prison, Poverty, References to Drugs, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Teen Pregnancy, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29292744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnchantingWriting/pseuds/EnchantingWriting
Summary: Peter Barnes has spent the last fifteen years scraping by in the South Side. Between raising the pile of younger siblings his parents dumped on him, corralling the unstable older ones, and attending an elite STEM school on scholarship, Peter barely has any time to breathe. When the opportunity to intern with Tony Stark arises, will Peter finally do something for himself?Ever since Steve Rogers's messy divorce, his life has had no purpose beyond clocking into his dead-end job and making sure his ex-stepson hasn't imploded from stress. When a one-night stand has the potential to blossom into something more, will Steve give love a second chance?As Tony Stark becomes increasingly entangled into the often chaotic and messy lives of these two South Siders, he cannot bring himself to regret a single thing.(Shameless-inspired Spider-Man AU)
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Past James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanoff, Past James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 41
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My amazing betas are Astro_cat13 and Chimrik. 
> 
> Please enjoy my self-indulgent Shameless-inspired Spider-Man AU. You do not need to be familiar with the premise of the show to understand the story. 
> 
> Please be aware of the tags and stay safe!

Peter wakes up to cold fingers clutching his feet. He tries not to kick out, but he twitches his legs. He twists his head around to see two pairs of wide eyes staring at him from the bottom of the bed. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes.

“Привет ( **Hi** ),” Peter says. “Why are you two up so early?”

“We want breakfast,” a little boy with dark curls and chubby cheeks says. He releases Peter’s toes. 

“I was changing diapers when I was your age,” Peter tells him.

He wrenches the covers off. His head pounds viciously and his mouth feels dry. He rolls his eyes when the little kids start laughing at his flamingo boxers. He tugs running shorts over them.

“You wear shirt yesterday,” his little sister Morgan points out in English.

Peter rips off his wifebeater. He grabs a wrinkled flannel off the floor. “Happy?” he asks, fastening the buttons.

“Look good,” the little boy says.

“You say, ‘it looks good,’ Nate,” Peter says automatically.

“You don’t tell Morgan it’s ‘wore that shirt,’” Nate complains in Russian.

“You’re a big boy now. Morgie hasn’t even started kindergarten yet,” Peter says, tweaking Nate’s ear. “C’mon, let’s go get breakfast. PopTarts sound good?”

The word “PopTarts” has Nate and Morgan running down the stairs. Peter follows at a slower pace. He finds his sister Lila reading at the table. Morgan clambers into Lila’s lap and curls up like a puppy. Lila runs her hands through her little sister’s hair, not saying a word.

“Why’d you two wake me up? Lila could have made you breakfast,” Peter complains. Lila smirks and sticks her tongue out at him. He flips her off. He puts two cinnamon PopTarts into the toaster.

“Lila burns the food,” Nate says. He manages to hoist himself on a barstool. “You look like shit. Wanda says you smoke weed last night.”

“Wanda’s full of shit,” Peter says. “How come she didn’t make you breakfast?”

“Wanda had work. She left early,” Nate says. “Before you ask, Wanda looked like shit, too. Shitter than you.”

Peter and his oldest sister Wanda stayed up until one a.m. passing a bottle of vodka back and forth while watching cartoons. Peter ignores the empty bottle of sitting at the top of the garbage can.

“Shittier,” Peter says.

“Should we really be teaching them how to conjugate swear words?” Lila asks.

“She speaks!” Peter exclaims. Lila scowls. Before she can jab back at him, Peter adds, “Don’t you remember anything from ESL? Any English practice is good practice. TV, radio, everyday conversation. Consistency is key.”

“We’re not even speaking English, you fucking idiot,” Lila says.

“Peter’s not an idiot,” Nate says loyally.

Morgan sucks her thumb, observing her older siblings with wide eyes.

“Thanks, Nattie. I appreciate it,” Peter says. He puts the Pop-Tarts on two plates and sets them in front of the kids. He pours himself a cup of coffee and takes a seat across from Lila. “Where the hell is everyone else?”

“Cooper is power washing Greasy O’Malley’s driveway. Pietro’s working,” Lila says.

Morgan tugs on the front of Lila’s shirt. “Can you play dress-up?”

Lila tweaks her nose. “Ask Nate. I’m doing homework.”

“I won’t play dress-up anymore,” Nate says in a sulky tone. In English, he adds, “Only pussy gay bitch wears dress.”

Peter and Lila exchange concerned looks. Trying to keep his tone as even as possible, Peter asks, “Where did you hear that, Nate?”

“Keith Tyler’s brother told us at the playground,” Nate says, spewing Pop-Tart crumbs everywhere.

Peter says, “Nattie, do you remember when Wanda said some boys like to kiss boys? What else did she say?”

“She says the boys who kiss boys are the same as the boys who kiss girls. Kissing boys is okay,” Nate says.

“Gay means boys kissing boys. Calling a gay person a ‘pussy bitch’ is really mean,” Peter says. “You can’t say that again, okay?”

Nate nods. 

“Do you kiss boys, Petya?” Morgan asks.

“He kisses girls, болван ( **dummy** ). Pietro says Petya kisses Gwen all the time,” Nate says.

“Not true, Nattie. Also, I kiss boys _and_ girls,” Peter says, his cheeks reddening. 

“Lila, do you kiss both?” Morgan asks.

“I kiss boys, Morgie. I wish I liked girls. Men are dicks,” Lila says. 

“I’m not a dick,” Nate says, crossing his arms. 

“You’re a boy, not a man. It’s different.”

“Is Daddy a dick?”

Lila nods.

“Pietro?” 

“Yes!” Peter says emphatically. “You’re catching on.”

“We know lots of dicks,” Morgan muses, half to herself.

Peter laughs. He says to Lila, “You’re sticking around here tonight, right?”

“Yeah, I am. You know, Coop’s plenty old enough to babysit,” Lila says.

“Just tell Dum Dum Dugan to come over here,” Peter says. “You guys can banish the kids upstairs and smooch on the couch.”

Lila smacks him with her book. “How the fuck do you even know about that?”

“Is Dum Dum a dick?” Morgan cuts in.

“He’s not a dick, but he’s pretty stupid. Once saw him spell ‘cat’ with a K,” Peter says. He snatches the book from Lila and smacks her back. “And of course I know, Lila. I’m your big brother. Brothers know these sorts of things.”

Lila says, “Well, I wish they didn’t. Why do you have to be so fucking nosy all the time?”

“I heard you FaceTiming him last night,” Nate says. “You were loud.”

Lila groans. “Why the fuck do I have to have four brothers?”

Peter rolls his eyes and retorts, “I don’t want to hear it. We boys have to deal with three sisters!”

* * *

Peter hears Russian rap blaring as soon as he yanks open the front gate. He fiddles with his keys and opens the door. He finds a silver-haired teenager spinning Lila around the living room. A burly kid nurses a beer in on the couch next to a girl with red-streaked hair.

“You’re back late,” the girl comments. 

Peter plops down on the couch between her and the kid with a beer. He takes a drag of her cigarette. “Hello to you, too, Wanda. They needed someone to stay until close.”

“Speak English,” Lila hisses.

The silver-haired teen, Peter’s oldest brother Pietro, lifts Lila into the air. He winks at Peter. “She thinks we are embarrassing her in front of her pimply ROTC boy.”

“Good. I live to torture Lila,” Peter says.

“Fuck off, Petya,” Lila says. She shoves Pietro away and sits next to the kid drinking a beer. In English, she says, “Dum Dum, you know my brother Peter.”

Dum Dum waves. “Hey, Pete. You’re the genius brother, the one that goes to the fancy science school, right?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a genius, but yeah, I go to Lake Tech,” Peter says. “Yo, I remember you from Mrs. Albright’s math class. I think it was seventh grade?”

“Fuck, yeah! I sat next to you. I remember my buddy saying he paid you six hundred bucks to go to that class for him during your study hall,” Dum Dum says. 

“Yeah, it was for Ralph Romino. How’s he doing?”

“Got out of juvie three or four months ago. Possession charges.”

“So that’s how he was able to pay me six hundred bucks,” Peter says. 

“Was that the money we used for your dad’s bail?” Pietro asks.

“No, we spent it when Nattie had whooping cough,” Peter says. 

Dum Dum whispers to Lila, “Which one is Nattie?”

“Nathaniel. He’s six,” Lila says. 

“Nattie,” Dum Dum says, half to himself. “God, there’s so many of you.”

Wanda laughs. “Where’d you find this one, Lila? Most of the guys I bring home think I’m lying when I say Morgan and Nattie aren’t my kids.”

“He can even say everyone’s name in order,” Lila says. 

“Shit, man, I can’t even do that,” Pietro says. “C’mon, you gotta show us.”

Dum Dum says haltingly, “Wanda, Pietro, Peter, Lila, Cooper, Nathaniel, and Morgan.”

“Damn, that was good,” Peter says. 

“I gotta ask, why is there a Pietro _and_ a Peter?” Dum Dum says.

“Our mom’s an idiot, that’s why. His name was supposed to be Benjamin Peter Barnes. Petya’s dad really wanted his middle name to be Peter after his dad. Our mom mixed up the name order on his birth certificate. We thought it was hilarious, so we kept calling him Petya instead of Ben. It just stuck,” Pietro says. 

“Petya?”

“Russian nickname for Peter. Well, Pyotr, technically. Pietro’s also short for Pyotr,” Peter explains. 

“Oh, it’s like how Vanya is short for Ivan, right? Russian names are really weird,” Dum Dum says. 

“What’s Dum Dum short for?” Wanda asks.

“Timothy. I have a brother named Jim, and Tim and Jim is too confusing. Sort of like Pietro and Peter.” Dum Dum rolls his eyes. “My mom smoked crack right before I was born.”

“I don’t know what’s worse. Jim and Tim, or Pietro and Peter,” Lila muses.

Wanda raises a glass. “To junkie moms who give their kids shitty matching names!”

* * *

On Monday morning, Peter trudges into the front doors of Lake Forest School of Science and Technology. The music blasting from his cheap earbuds drowns out his classmates’ conversations. He does not pay them any mind, and they ignore him in return—exactly the way he likes it.

Peter’s eyes feel heavy with fatigue. Rotating between partying and working all weekend wiped him out. Thankfully, Peter is all caught up on his homework. His hour-long commute to school gives him plenty of time to complete assignments. He could ace his classes in his sleep, anyway. 

He grins when he sees a kid waiting for him in front of his locker. Peter waves.

“Hey, man,” Ned says. “You look like shit.”

“You know, someone else said that to me a couple days ago,” Peter says. He fist bumps Ned. “How was your weekend?”

“I studied for French and rewatched _The Clone Wars_. Oh, and my grandma had this big barbecue on Saturday. My cousins continue to bring hot significant others to meet the family. Then the aunties ask me if I have any special someone,” Ned sighs. 

“Let me know if you need a fake boyfriend,” Peter says. He unlocks his locker and shoves books in his backpack. “I can do my hot Russian accent.”

“My mom would call bullshit right away,” Ned sighs. “She knows us too well for it to ever work.”

“What about Gwen?” 

“Your freaking girlfriend? No way, man,” Ned says.

“She’s not my girlfriend, and she loves barbecue,” Peter says. 

“She’s basically your girlfriend,” Ned says. 

“Fuck no, kissing her would be like kissing my sister.” Peter shudders at the idea of it. “You’re just as bad as the twins. They shove condoms under my pillow at least once a week.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” Ned readjusts the strap of his shoulder bag. Both boys let out a groan as the five-minute warning bells chimes. The clumps of students hanging out in the hall begin to migrate towards their homerooms.

“We should get to class. That _suka_ Mr. Warren glares at me if I show up a minute before the bell rings,” Peter says with an eye roll. “My teachers in middle school never even noticed if you skipped. Forty-five kids to a room, how the hell would they even know?”

“Man, that sounds nice,” Ned says. “I wish I could skip French every day.”

“I only skipped if I was taking a test for someone,” Peter says. 

“Yeah, because you’re a freak who actually likes school,” Ned says. He stops in front of Peter’s homeroom. “Get in there before Warren zaps you with his death glare.”

“See you at lunch,” Peter says.

“See you at lunch,” Ned echoes.

Peter steps into the classroom. He feels Warren’s eyes on him as he moves towards his seat in the middle of the room. Peter sinks into the desk. He pulls out a notebook and a pen. He almost jumps out of his skin when someone taps him on the back. He whirls around to find Michelle Jones in the seat behind him.

Her arms are crossed. Her dark scowl sends shivers down his spine.

“Hey, MJ,” Peter says. 

MJ is not someone he would call a friend. He is not sure MJ even likes him. As the geeky scholarship kid and the brooding artist, the two of them often find themselves alone in class. Peter will pair up with her for pair activities in class. They’ll do the work silently, swap worksheets, and check each other’s answers. He knows nothing about her besides her name and that she likes to draw.

“Peter, do you know where I was before this?”

Peter says, “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“I picked up the sign-up sheet for Academic Decathlon from the front office,” MJ says. “I did not see your name on the list.”

“Because I didn’t put it there,” Peter says.

“Peter—“

“It was _one_ match, MJ. I’ve told you and Ned and Liz a billion times that I don’t want to join the team.”

“You were brilliant,” MJ says.

Last semester, Peter filled in for Ned at a Decathlon meet. Peter carried the team and secured a key victory that led to the team going to Nationals that year. Since then, Ned and his teammates have harassed Peter endlessly about joining the team. 

Peter does not have the guts to tell them that he works twenty-five hours a week at a shitty deli to help pay the bills. He won’t say that he does SAT tutoring sessions for extra cash, or that he has a pile of kids to keep an eye on at home. Peter needs to keep his schedule open. Too much shit happens at his house for him to make any commitments outside his family.

“I won’t do it,” Peter says, more firmly this time. Thankfully, the bell rings a second later. Peter turns towards Mr. Warren. He feels the weight of MJ’s eyes on him. Peter tightens his grip around the pen, trying his best to focus on the lecture.

* * *

Peter walks through the halls, clutching a thermos in his hand. Every Sunday and Wednesday night, Wanda makes a big pot of soup so that the younger kids have food for lunch. Peter should be sick of eating potato soup, shchi, and borscht on a constant rotation, but Wanda’s soup is like liquid crack. He can’t get enough of it.

Peter rounds the corner to get to the hall that leads to the cafeteria. He is passing the front office when he hears a voice call, “Peter, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Peter fights the urge to flinch. He still is not used to going to a school that is small enough for the faculty to remember students by name. He approaches the office, forcing a smile. 

“Hey, Mr. Dave. What’s up?”

The receptionist smiles at him. “Do you have a moment to talk to Principal Morita?”

“Sure,” Peter says. “Should I just knock on the door?” He jerks his chin towards the closed door next to Mr. Dave’s desk. Mr. Dave nods, prompting Peter to rap his knuckles against the door. When he hears a soft, “Come in,” Peter steps inside the office.

“Hey, Barnes,” Principal Morita says.

“Whatever you think I did, I didn’t do it,” Peter says. He plops down in the chair in front of Morita’s desk. 

Morita raises his eyebrows. After catching Peter was caught smoking in the bathroom on the first day of school, Morita told him he would have his scholarship revoked if he kept it up. Since then, Peter has not even received one tardy slip.

“We both know you’re too smart to get caught again,” Morita says.

“ _Again_ implies continued misbehavior,” Peter corrects. “There’s nothing you can catch me for, considering I’ve done nothing. Therefore, using the adjective ‘again’ is not necessary—”

“It’s an adverb, actually,” Morita corrects.

“English isn’t my first language,” Peter says. He drums his fingers against Morita’s desk. “Mr. Dave said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes. It’s a decision I’m starting to regret.” Morita hands him a file. “Read it.”

Peter opens the folder and stares at the document. He reads,“‘Stark Industries September Foundation.’ What’s this?” 

“For the past year, I’ve heard Mr. Harrington go on and on about how you should be on the Academic Decathlon team. However, I know you refuse to join any extracurriculars—”

“I’m in band and robotics,” Peter says. “I'm first chair alto sax.”

“Both of those activities happen during normal school hours,” Morita says. “The truth is, Barnes, you don’t want to be in this building a minute longer than you have to be. You have very few friends. You hardly participate in class. You haven’t joined any clubs or sports. Did your old school have a Harry Potter Club or a fencing team?”

Peter shakes his head.

“That’s my point—you don’t utilize any of this school’s unique resources, Peter. Tell me, why did you want to go here in the first place?”

Peter, Gwen, and Lila filled out his application for the scholarship while they were smoking weed they stole from Gwen’s dad. Peter didn’t even remember submitting the application until he received his acceptance letter months later.

He has a feeling Morita would not appreciate that story, though.

“No one in my family has graduated high school,” Peter says thickly. “My older siblings, my cousins, my parents, my grandparents, everyone dropped out. When I was little, my English sucked. My dad’s American, but we only spoke Russian and Romanian at home. All my teachers thought I was too stupid to learn. My first memory is my Head Start teacher calling me the r-slur. I decided to come here to prove them wrong.”

Morita pretends to wipe a tear. “Great sob story, Peter. How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“Mrs. Morris lapped it up in that stupid personal narrative essay she made us write,” Peter says with a grin.

“You little shit.” Morita taps the folder. “This internship will spruce up your resume. You get a stipend and you make shit blow up. It should be perfect for you.”

“I thought Stark Industries only hires college students as interns,” Peter says. 

Stark Industries is a multi-billion dollar tech conglomerate based out of New York City. Tony Stark, the founder’s son, built a massive skyscraper right in downtown Chicago. He named it Stark Tower, where he reportedly lives in a penthouse bigger than a Kardashian mansion. Peter’s read all of Stark’s scientific papers and attempted to build an SI arc reactor in his basement. Attempted being the key word, as Peter caused a miniature explosion and set Wanda’s sex couch on fire.

“This is a special one for high schoolers,” Morita says. “I’ve included recommendation letters from Mr. Harrington and myself in the folder.”

“Woah—thank you,” Peter breathes. Recommendation letters from Principal Morita are worth their weight in gold. There’s a rumor that Morita denied the class valedictorian’s request for a letter last year.

“Barnes, you’re smart. Even though you’re irritating as hell, I think you could make something of your life. This internship is your first step out of the gutter. Don’t let me down.”

“I’ll try not to,” Peter says sincerely. 

He knows better than to make promises he cannot keep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the tags and stay safe!
> 
> My amazing betas are Astro_cat13 and Chimrik.
> 
> My tumblr is @enchantingwriting 
> 
> if you want, go check out my other fic “why can’t the past just die”!

Peter hears Pietro holler, “I got the booze for Dad’s get-out-of-prison party! Come down, we need to get everything set up.”

“We’re coming!” Wanda yells back. She stops in the doorway of Peter’s room, waving a hand towards her little brother. “I need your help frosting the cupcakes.”

“Lila’s better at it than me. I’ll cook dinner,” Peter says.

“Lila took the kids to the park. Get your ass up and go frost some fucking cupcakes, Petya,” Wanda snaps.

Peter puts his hands up. “Alright, alright,” he says.

They meet Pietro in the kitchen. He is struggling to fit a case of beer in the fridge. He has a bottle of vodka shoved under each armpit.

Peter pulls a can of orange frosting out of the cabinet. He asks, “How much did all that cost?”

“I bought the cheap shit,” Pietro says. “Dad hasn’t had booze in six months, do you think he’s gonna be able to tell the difference?”

Wanda grabs the Tupperware full of cupcakes she baked yesterday. Whenever a Barton gets out of prison, the family frosts orange cupcakes and gets absolutely wasted. Peter’s stepdad Clint Barton is getting out tonight. Clint’s brother Barney is picking him up at Cook County Correctional while the kids get the house ready for the party.

“You’d be better off having Morgan frost those cupcakes,” Pietro says. “Petya sucks at frosting.”

“That’s what I said,” Peter says. 

Wanda cuffs him on the ear. “If I tell you to frost the cupcakes, you frost them.”

Peter brandishes his butter knife. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“If he fucks up the got-out-of-prison cupcakes, it’s okay. I think Cousin Terrence is getting released in a couple months anyway,” Pietro says. “Maybe consider this the practice round, Petya.”

“Well, we won’t be making these cupcakes for any immediate family anytime soon,” Wanda says. “With Mama gone, Dad knows better than to fuck up again. And if either of your sorry asses ends up in prison, I’ll vivisect you with a dull rusted knife.”

On the one-year anniversary of his wife skipping town, Clint went to a local bar to drown out his sorrows. One bar fight and parole violation later, Clint ended up in the slammer for six months. Without his income, the twins, Peter, and Lila have had to support the family by themselves. They managed over the summer, but with school starting again, Peter and Lila cannot work more than twenty-five hours a week. 

Peter knows his older siblings have carried an unfair share of the burden. Wanda has dropped five pounds in the last month. Pietro smokes more weed than Wanda, Lila, and Peter combined. He dyed his hair silver at three a.m. on a dare from Nattie. Anyone taking cosmetic advice from a six-year-old has to be pretty stressed out.

“Duly noted. I’m very attached to my organs, so I promise not to end up behind bars. On a lighter note, Bernie Caster told Clint he’d get his old job at the slaughterhouse back,” Peter says. “Wanda, I was thinking maybe you could quit the motel.”

Wanda ducks her head to hide her little grin. “Maybe. I’m already at the restaurant full-time. I’m not overly attached to changing sheets covered in jizz and piss.”

“I’m not quitting the Alibi. I can’t miss out on the free drinks,” Pietro says, naming the bar he works at.

Wanda waves a perfectly frosted cupcake under Peter’s nose. “As someone who greatly enjoys her family discount, you definitely aren’t allowed to quit.”

Peter says, “You know, this is the first time in a long time we’ve been able to even joke about working less hours.”

“It feels fuckin’ great,” Pietro says. “Shall we go smoke a couple joints to celebrate our family’s financial success?”

Wanda gestures arounds. “Ah yes, Pietro, you can go and hallucinate us living in a mansion while Petya and I get actual work done.”

Pietro would have to be smoking some hard drugs to hallucinate their house as a mansion. The kitchen wallpaper is peeling in certain areas. Uncle Barney ripped a sizable hole in the wall behind the fridge when he tried to steal their copper pipes. He claimed he needed money to call off the hit his dealer put out on him. The vinyl floor is scuffed from years of wear and tear. The appliances are all at least fifteen years old. Their dishwasher broke years ago; they only use it to store pots and pans now. They keep the house as clean as they can, but they can only do so much.

Pietro huffs. “Fuck off. I’ll hang the banner and get dinner started.”

“Good boy,” Wanda says. “I have you guys trained well.”

Her brothers flip her off in unison.

* * *

The next morning, Peter wakes up to the smell of food cooking. His face is squished against the wall. He cranes his neck and realizes his bed is also occupied by Nate and his friend Gwen. Gwen sleeps dangerously close to the edge. Nate is sprawled out at the foot of the bed like a little puppy. Peter bites back a sigh.

He lifts himself up on his elbows to see Uncle Barney curled up on the floor, drooling. Pietro snores on the lower bunk, and Cooper is reading on the bed above him. Peter waves at his little brother.

Cooper grins and waves back.

Peter sets about unwedging himself between Gwen and the wall. He wriggles to the end of the bed and slides off the mattress. Nate and Gwen do not even stir.

Stepping over Barney, Peter tugs on yesterday’s jeans and a clean flannel. He follows his nose down the kitchen stairs. He finds Clint cracking eggs into a pan. 

“Good morning,” Clint says in his terrible Russian. He signs, “I’m cooking breakfast. Greasy food cures hangovers.”

Peter’s head throbs as he recalls last night’s celebration. He distantly remembers throwing up in the empty lot next door. He and Gwen danced with Cooper and Nate on the kitchen table. There was a drinking game Clint learned from his prison buddies. It involved a hammer…

“I need it,” Peter says. He sits in one of the barstools. “Have you got any Advil?”

Clint offers him a glass of water and the pill bottle. 

Peter gulps down the pills. “Thanks.”

“You started off with beer and ended the night with vodka and tequila shots. That was a stupid move,” Clint says.

Peter rubs his throbbing temples. “Yeah, well, I’m paying for it this morning.”

“I’m surprised you’re even up this early,” Clint says. “Do you have work?”

“No. The room was too crowded, I needed some space. I can’t be in that tiny-ass shoebox with five other people.”

“Fuckin’ Barney, I told him to sleep in my room last night,” Clint mutters. “We spent every winter in this house growing up. How did he forget which room was which?”

“Barney still mixes up his left shoe and his right shoe. Are you that surprised?”

Clint flips the eggs over. “I’m not surprised at all, honestly.”

“Even though he’s an idiot, I’m still glad he came last night. He carried our team during beer pong.”

“There was beer pong?”

“You were snoring on the sex couch by then,” Peter says. He uses the family’s home sign for “sex couch” for emphasis.

Clint shudders. He divides the eggs between two plates and sets one in front of Peter. “Should I burn my clothes?”

At that moment, Wanda comes flouncing down the stairs. She snatches the second plate from Clint’s hands. “For that comment, Dad, those eggs are mine.”

Clint simply grabs two more eggs from the carton and cracks them in the pan. He knows better than to argue with his eldest daughter. Wanda plops down in the barstool next to Peter. She shoves a whole fried egg in her mouth.

“You have to admit, the sex couch is pretty gross,” Peter says.

“Mama and I conceived at least half of you guys on that couch,” Clint says.

“Petya set the old one on fire while you were locked up. I got a new one,” Wanda says through a mouthful of eggs. 

Clint says, “God, Petya, the smoke you inhaled was probably laced with STDs.” 

“You and Mama…?” Peter gags.

“No, but Barney doubled his body count on that couch in the late nineties.”

“Fucking hell!” Peter pretends to retch. “I think I need to go gargle Everclear now.”

* * *

By noon, everyone is out of bed. Barney stumbles down the stairs last. He drinks half a pot of coffee by himself and attempts to snatch Gwen’s bag of weed. Her dad is a dirty cop who gets the good stuff for free by tipping off dealers before drug raids. After that, Pietro and Clint manhandle Barney into the shower. Gwen, still fuming over the weed, drags Peter onto the roof to do homework and get away from Barney. Peter’s uncle is terrified of heights.

“He’s going to try to crash here permanently if you let him stay any longer,” Gwen warns, rolling a cigarette between her gloved fingers.

“Nah, he knows Cooper would lace his coffee with rat poison again if he stays longer than two nights,” Peter says.

“What the fuck... _ Again _ ?”

“That’s how you get rid of pests, right?” Peter grins.

“You’re fucking with me, Barnes. I know you are.” Gwen exhales heavily, smoke billowing out of her nostrils. She points at the pile of papers in Peter’s lap. “Did you finish that internship application yet?”

“Yeah. Do you want to read my essay?” Peter shoves a wrinkled piece of notebook paper in her hands.

“‘This prompt asks me to talk about a personal struggle I have faced. This essay should be really easy, then. You see, my shitshow of a life has allowed me to collect every Pokémon card of adversity and trauma. I could write about my runaway junkie mom who had her first kid at fifteen, or that I was conceived while she was cheating on her husband in prison. Karma must be a bitch, because my dad is now in the same prison my stepdad—yes, he is still married to my mom—was locked up in when he fucked his wife silly.’“ Gwen bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

“My principal said to make myself stand out,” Peter says. “Keep reading.”

“‘Maybe I can write about growing up bi in a neighborhood where people still tattoo ‘f—I’m not saying that word, Peter—on people’s foreheads. Honestly, I think the struggle I want to focus on is being forced to learn about the same dead white guys’ scientific theories over and over again when all I want to do is build a life-size model of R2D2--’ Peter Venyamin Barnes, you  _ cannot  _ submit this--”

“I can, and I will. If I have to apply for an internship at a soulless corporation responsible for countless war crimes, I might as well be myself.”

“Don’t even pretend you’re not obsessed with Tony Stark,” Gwen says.

“Okay, SI may donate millions to LGBT charities every year. And I  _ might  _ have read a couple of his scientific journals--”

“Peter, you’ve read all eighty-seven of them three times over--”

“War crimes, Gwen. War crimes.”

“SI left the military sector as soon as Tony Stark inherited the company. It doesn’t make up for the damage the company caused, but it’s definitely gone in a different direction under new leadership. You know how I know all that?  _ You _ , Peter. You literally love Tony Stark more than me and all of your siblings combined. So cut the bullshit and tell me why you don’t want to apply.”

“I don’t know what I want in general,” Peter says. “But I do know I don’t want to be anyone except me. I-I-I can’t change who I am just to fit in at my yuppie private high school. Just because I don’t want to join Harry Potter Club--fuck J.K. Rowling--or hang out with the rich assholes who think I’m nothing more than South Side trash doesn’t mean I don’t belong there.”

“You’re mad at that principal for forcing you to apply,” Gwen says.

“Yeah. Fuck him and fuck this internship.” Peter spits off the roof. 

Gwen reaches forward and grips his shoulders. “Listen, Peter--fuck that principal of yours. You don’t have to apply just because he told you to. It’s perfectly okay to not want to listen to him. However, it’s not okay to throw away this amazing opportunity with a company you love. Do this for yourself, not some crusty-ass academic who doesn’t know jack shit about you. This is a real chance, Peter.”

“A real chance to what?” Peter asks.

“To get the fuck out of this shitty neighborhood and go to college,” Gwen says.

Peter laughs. “College? You’re kidding, right?”

Gwen scowls. “Fuck off, of course I’m not kidding!”

“I can’t  _ leave,  _ Gwen. The way things are around here...you know I can’t leave my siblings.”

“They’re your siblings, Petya, not your kids. They aren’t your responsibility!”

Peter scowls. “I’m not Wanda and Pietro’s fucking responsibility, but they still took care of me and everyone else for all these years. I can’t just fuck off to college the first chance I get and ditch them. Holy fuck, Gwen, you should know better than anyone that I can’t leave!”

Gwen raises her hands. “Forget I said anything. I don’t want to fight. You’re smart, Peter. The smartest fucking person I know. You’ll make the right decision. Just remember, a lot can change in two years. You might feel differently about college later on.”

Peter hides a grin. “I’m the smartest person you know?”

“Fuck you. I only said it in the heat of the moment. I’m still the smartest person I know, and your uncle is still the dumbest person to ever walk this earth.”

“You’re still pissed about the weed, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am!” Gwen says.

“We have rat poison in the basement--”

“I’m pretty sure even my dad couldn’t get me out of first-degree murder charges, Peter,” Gwen says with a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing betas are Astro_cat13 and Chimrik.
> 
> My tumblr is @enchantingwriting 
> 
> if you want, go check out my other fic “why can’t the past just die”!
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this! As always, feel free to further educate me in the comments as I navigate writing about sensitive topics. I love hearing from different perspectives and gaining access to new information. I do my best to research and be as accurate as possible, but there is always room for improvement.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the tags and stay safe!
> 
> My amazing betas are Astro_cat13 and Chimrik.
> 
> My tumblr is @enchantingwriting
> 
> if you want, go check out my other fic “why can’t the past just die”!

Phil Coulson sits in his 2003 Honda Civic. He often contemplates hopping in the shitty rust bucket and driving someplace sunny—Miami, Acapulco, San Francisco. Anywhere besides this godforsaken city.

Phil takes a deep breath and pulls a file out of his messenger bag.

“Clinton Barton,” he mutters to himself. “Alcoholic felon with seven kids. Wife Natalia Barton is a junkie.”

He opens his car door and slams it shut. He stares up at the rundown house before him. The porch needs a coat of paint, but someone bothers to cut the grass and trim the hedges. And there are no heroin needles in the front yard. Phil considers that a plus.

He climbs the front steps. He pounds a fist against the door. After thirty seconds, he begins knocking continuously. Finally, the door opens as much as the door chain will allow. A dark-haired teen shoves her face between the gap. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles.

“Don’t you see the mezuzah? If hundreds of years of getting fucked over by everyone else didn’t change our minds, you won’t either. The asshole smoking weed four doors down is an atheist. You should fuck on over to his house.”

“My name’s Phil Coulson. I’m with DCFS,” Phil says before the kid can slam the door. “I need to speak with Clinton Barton.”

The kid’s brow furrows. She unlatches the chain and opens the door a fraction wider. “My dad’s last drug test came clean. His parole officer said so. Why are you here? I don’t have to let you in without a warrant—”

“Listen, I’m not here for a home visit or to take any kids away,” Phil says. “I just want to talk to him. He’s not in trouble.”

“You—Um, come inside.” The kid yanks open the door and walks into the living room.

Phil follows the kid inside. He immediately notices the strong musk of cigarette smoke. The living room is crowded with three armchairs, a stained couch, and a flatscreen TV mounted on a crate. The coffee table has crayons, magazines, and Hot Wheels scattered across it. The mantle displays various family photos from weddings, graduations, and birthday parties. A red solo cup overflowing with cigarette buds is shoved in front a picture of a preschooler with a toothy grin.

“My dad’s out back. Let me get him,” the kid says. “You can sit down if you want.”

The kid makes his way through the dining area and kitchen. She disappears out the back door. Phil listens for anyone else in the house. He hears faint voices out back. He resists the urge to peek into the yard.

A minute later, a man saunters into the kitchen. Deep lines are scoured into Barton’s face, but his hair is trimmed neatly and his eyes are bright. His purple hearing aids stand out in sharp contrast against his sandy hair. The same kid from before shadows him. 

“You’re the social worker?” the man asks.

“I am. Mr. Barton, I’m here on behalf of Janna Belova,” Phil says. 

Barton frowns. “My wife’s cousin? Why?”

“Ms. Belova was sentenced to five years in prison for carjacking and possession of an illegal firearm. Your daughter Yelena is currently in foster care,” Phil says. “Ms. Belova would like to place the child in your care.”

Barton’s eyes almost pop out of his head. The look on his kid’s face would be comical under different circumstances.

“My-my daughter, you said?” Barton chokes out. 

Phil rattles off the facts quickly: “Although your name was not listed on the birth certificate, Ms. Belova insisted you were the child’s father. We ran a paternity test based on your DNA sample on file and confirmed her paternity claim. Ms. Belova knows you have several children already, but she would prefer to keep the child with her biological family.” 

(Actually, Janna Belova had said, “Clint’s got a fuckton of kids. He won’t notice one more little shit running around, and Elechka will have siblings to play with.”)

Barton runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . How old is the kid?”

“Seven months old,” Phil says.

Barton’s face is grim. “Timing adds up. Fuck! What am I supposed to— _ FUCK _ !”

The kid glares at her dad. She signs faster than Phil’s brain can keep up, her hands moving with exaggerated and sharp motions. He sees the signs for “when,” “sex,” and “why.”

Phil sees the gears whirring in the kid’s mind. Her realization causes her face to redden and her fists to clench. 

“You didn’t,” the kid says. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Barton stays silent. 

“You fucked Mama’s cousin when she was in fucking _ rehab _ ? You sick fuck,” his daughter explodes. Spittle flies out of her mouth.

“You know things are complicated between your mother and I, Lila—“

“I’m not arguing that she’s not a piece of shit, Dad. But God, her fucking  _ cousin _ ? How are you gonna explain this one to Mama?” Lila throws her hands up. “Just when I think things couldn’t get any more screwed up around here, they do!”

“Mr. Barton, if you’d like me to come back tomorrow—“

Lila points a finger at him. “No, no. The kid’s getting out of that foster home today. She needs to be here, with her dad and her siblings. Even though they’re family, the Belovs are too batshit to look after her.”

(Janna went on to say, “Clint may party hard on the weekends, but at least he’s not a crack whore like my mom or a wife beater like my old man. Clint’s a fun drunk, you know? My dad’s a real son of a bitch. Once knocked out three of my mom’s teeth with a single punch.”

Needless to say, Phil is not going to seek out the Belov side of the family tree.)

“Mr. Barton, do you consent to this?” Phil asks. “I know you being married makes this a complicated situation.”

Barton looks at his daughter and nods once. “Yeah,” he rasps. “I mean, of course. My wife had a kid with another dude when I was in prison. She won’t mind. This kid’s my freebie, I guess. We’re even—she had Peter, I have Yelena. Um, do you… do you have a picture?”

Phil pulls the boy’s file out of his shoulder bag. He hands Barton a photo of a chubby baby with dark hair and big blue eyes. Barton stares at the photo for a long time. Phil sees Lila and Barton’s eyes fill up with tears.

“She looks like you, Li,” Barton says.

“She’s definitely a Barton,” Lila sighs. She looks at Phil. “Her name is Yelena, right? Yelena Belova?”

“Her last name is Belova-Barton. Yelena Arkadievna Belova-Barton is her full legal name,” Phil says, stumbling over the Russian name.

“Of course Janna used her asshole father’s patronymic,” Barton says with an eye roll. He lets out a heavy sigh. “God, I hate your Uncle Arkadii.”

“What the fuck else was she supposed to name her? It’s not like you have a Russian name,” Lila snaps.

“Your mama says that Khariton was a fine enough equivalent of Clinton, Lila Edith Kharitonovna Barton,” Clint retorts. 

“Your pathetic attempts to create multicultural names fucked us over for life,” Lila says. 

“Your name is not the worst one, though.”

“Yeah, Pietro wins that one by a mile.”

Clint turns to Phil. “For context, Mr. Coulson, my wife named our oldest son Pyotr Kharitonovich Vicodin Barton. I guess that’s what happens when two fifteen-year-olds have kids. It’s my own fault, honestly. I shouldn’t have smoked a joint right before they induced her.” Barton sighs. “See, I wanted to name him  _ Benjamin _ . I waited four fucking years for her IUD to pop out and have another kid. Peter’s not mine by blood, but still, I was so happy when he was born. Bucky and Natasha both loved the name Benjamin when I suggested it. And then what does Nat fuckin’ do? I’ll tell you—she mixes up the names and names him Peter Venyamin Barnes. So we have two fucking Peters! God, my wife is dumb as shit.”

“Your daughter having your last name will make the transfer of guardianship easier,” Phil says instead of commenting on Barton’s rant. “Do you want to talk about the logistics of moving Yelena into your home?”

“Yeah, definitely. Um, follow me. We can sit at the kitchen table,” Barton says. “Lila, can you grab Pietro? Not Wanda. Maybe handcuff her to the fence? And double check that Pietro isn’t carrying a shiv. I don’t want a repeat of Morgan’s gender reveal party, especially with our genteel friend here.”

Phil feels faintly ill. 

Lila nods. She disappears out the back door. Phil and Barton make their way through the kitchen at a much slower pace. 

The Bartons keep their house cleaner than a lot of the families Phil works with. There are only a couple plates and cups in the sink. The washer has a load going. A basket of folded laundry sits on top of the dryer. He even sees a well-organized calendar and chore chart on the fridge.

Lila returns with a young man who sports Barton’s mischievous brows and scowl. His jaw is locked. He sits down at the kitchen table with mismatched chairs. The young man points a finger at Barton. 

“You could have fucked anyone in this world, but you decided to stick your dick in your wife’s cousin’s vagina. Mama is going to kill you.”

“Yelena’s my freebie,” Barton says to his son.

“It’s not a freebie when your new baby mama is related to the first one, you stupid fuck! You’re getting a vasectomy  _ tomorrow _ ,” he says. 

Barton says, “Pietro, I didn’t plan—“

“Exactly, Dad! You didn’t plan. You never plan, and now you have eight fucking kids. Congratulations.” Pietro Barton’s deadly calm expression unnerves Phil.

“I’ll call the clinic after DCFS leaves,” Barton mutters.

“Yes, you fucking are,” Pietro says. He glares at Phil. “So we’re talking logistics? I’m guessing it’s the usual—drug test, home study, a couple follow-up visits?”

“I’d like to place your sister by the end of the day, as I have another baby I need to place in the foster home she is currently at,” Phil says. “Can I do a quick walkthrough of the home?”

Pietro drums his fingers on the kitchen table. “Caps are on the chemicals, there’s childproof locks on the cabinets, the water isn’t too hot, and each kid in the house has their own bed. We’ll get the crib from the basement and set it up.”

“Can I see the room you will place Yelena’s crib in?”

“Yeah, sure, follow me. Dad, Lila, do you want to get the crib from the basement?”

Barton and Lila nod.

Phil and Pietro trudge up a narrow staircase. Random toys and dirty laundry are scattered throughout the hall. Phil ducks his head in the bathroom. The sink is full of dried toothpaste and the toilet needs a good scrub.

Pietro joins Phil in the doorway. “My brother Cooper was supposed to clean the bathroom this morning,” he says quietly. “Eight people sharing two bathrooms means that they get trashed in a matter of minutes.”

“I know. I’m impressed that you guys don’t have mold on the walls or cockroaches crawling around,” Phil says. “Looks a hell of a lot better than my apartment growing up.”

Pietro grins crookedly. “Didn’t you see the holes in the wall downstairs? Someone tried stealing our pipes a couple years ago.”

“Did you ever catch the guy who did it?”

“Yeah. It was my uncle and my mom.” Pietro’s grin disappears. He moves down the hall, floorboards groaning beneath his feet. He yanks open a pocket door covered in purple Sharpie scribbles. The small bedroom has a twin bed, a toy box, and a puppet theatre. Someone pinned  _ My Little Pony  _ and  _ Transformers _ posters to the wall. Plastic dinosaurs, blocks, and other toys are scattered across the floor. The carpet has several dubious stains on it.

Pietro kicks a plastic T-Rex and a baby doll out of his way. Phil watches from the hall as he pulls out the trundle beneath the twin bed.

“The youngest two sleep in here. The six-year-old is in the twin bed. Four-year-old’s on the trundle. We’ll put the crib on the opposite wall.” 

“You said eight people live here, correct?” Phil asks.

Pietro nods. “Yeah, me, my dad, and my six siblings.”

“How many bedrooms are there?”

“Four,” Pietro says. “Each kid has their own bed.”

Phil takes a look at the young man before him. Pietro’s eyes are stained with purple shadows underneath. His hair is sloppily dyed silver, with random patches of brown and blonde popping up here and there. He has to be in his early twenties at the most, but stress carved lines on his face long before aging did. He is the son of an unstable mother and alleged alcoholic father. His anxious answers and constant fidgeting speak volumes.

Phil knows how to recognize the parentified child. The child who is too busy looking after his parents and siblings to look out for himself. He sees it all the time—a four-year-old who can change diapers, the seven-year-old found grocery shopping alone. The kids who will lie through their teeth to protect parents who don’t deserve it.

Despite his obvious anger with his father, Pietro Barton seems to care a hell of a lot about his family.

“You can relax, Pietro,” Phil says. 

“Pardon me?” 

“I’m not here to arrest anyone or take anyone’s kids away. You can take a deep breath, kid,” Phil says.

Pietro ’s scowl deepens. “‘Kid?’ Jesus, man, I’m nineteen.”

“Your dad said you were four when that little brother of yours was born. Peter, was it?”

Pietro nods. 

“So you’ve been raising kids for your shitty parents since you were four. Good to know.”

“If you weren’t a social worker, man, I’d tell you to get the fuck out of this house. You don’t know shit,” Pietro hisses.

“I don’t know shit, huh? Hmm, let me see. Your mom stole the pipes for drugs, right? What’s she into? Pills, oxy, meth? And that dad of yours, he’s an alcoholic who can’t stay out of prison. Things aren’t bad enough to take the kids away permanently, but bad enough for you to know every question I’ll ask, every DCFS regulation. Individual bed for each kid, sealed chemicals, the whole nine yards. All to cover the asses of a couple greasy addicts who gave you nothing except a bunch of kids to raise.”

Pietro leans against the wall. “Are you done?”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Phil admits. “It feels wrong, dropping a baby off here after such a half-assed investigation. But I’ve got a father who is willing to take the kid, no visible drugs, and habitable living conditions. That’s about all you really need.”

“What do you think is the next stop for Yelena after this? Prison or drugs? Maybe a kid at fourteen?” Pietro waggles his eyebrows.

“I’m not answering that.”

“That’s what all you yuppie save-the-world bleeding hearts are really thinking, though. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not some rich asshole who thinks he’s better than everyone. I’m from the South Side, too.”

Pietro sinks onto the twin bed. He looks up at Phil with an amused expression. He says, “That’s even worse. You leave this shithole, go to college, and you forget. Then you come back here thinking you’re better than everyone else.”

“I want kids to know they have other options than prison or drugs. Is that really so bad?” Phil asks.

Pietro stares at him for a long moment. Pointing at Phil, he slowly stands up. “Wait right here,” he says. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Phil watches him leave the bedroom and disappear down the hall. After a minute, Pietro returns with a large portrait. He shoves it in Phil’s hands.

Phil looks down at the picture. It’s a portrait of seven kids, ranging from teenagers to a baby. Pietro has a toddler propped on his hip in the photo.

“These your siblings?” Phil asks.

Pietro points out each person. “Yeah, it’s my twin Wanda, then Peter, Lila, Cooper, Nate, and Morgan.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Here. See Cooper? He wants to be a pilot. He knows more about planes than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s saving up to buy JROTC equipment. After high school he swears he’ll enlist with the Air Force. He’s already got hell of a dedication, and he’s only ten.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. 

“My brother Peter goes to Lake Forest School of Science and Technology on a full scholarship. He’s a smart little shit. He’s been running circles around me since he was three. Hell of a photographer, too.” Pietro points to Lila. “My sister wants to be a lawyer. She’s mouthy as hell, great at arguing, and loves to read. Told me she wants to go into immigration law to help people.”

“What are you trying to tell me here?”

“They have more options than prison or drugs. It may not seem like it, but my parents have really tried. Me and Wanda, we keep an eye on the kids, too. We do what we can. I wish we could do more, because all of them deserve the fucking world,” Pietro says. “Yelena will be happy here. I promise you.”

“What about you, Pietro?” 

“What about me?”

“Are you happy? Don’t you have dreams and aspirations?”

Pietro only offers him a tired smile. He grabs the portrait and tosses it on the twin bed. “How about we go back downstairs? You can see all the childproof locks on the kitchen cabinets.”

* * *

Phil finishes filling out the paperwork with Barton in the kitchen. His four oldest kids assemble the crib in the living room, while another boy entertains the little ones upstairs. Whatever they are doing involves a lot of yelling and thumping. 

“Who the fuck threw out the directions for this stupid thing?” Peter asks. 

Pietro scratches the back of his head. “Remember the last time we ran out of toilet paper…”

“No way! You fucking prick, you didn’t—”

Pietro laughs.

Peter grabs a pillow off the couch and whacks his brother over the head with it. “You asshole, you know you’re supposed to use coffee filters.”

Barton smiles fondly as he scrawls his signature across the affidavit to acknowledge paternity. “There’s nothing quite like the bond between brothers,” he says.

Phil glances over his shoulder. Peter chases Pietro up the stairs, smacking his legs with the pillow. The two girls continue tightening the screws on the crib, not even bothering to look at them.

A door slams upstairs. 

“Fucking coward!” Peter yells. “I’m going to shove a coffee filter up your ass when you’re asleep.”

“They seem...close,” Phil manages.

“Pietro and Petya are best friends.” Barton stares at the picture of his daughter in Phil ’s file. “I almost wish little Yelena was a boy. My son Nate, his brothers are a lot older than him.”

“You and Mama made me wait four years for a little brother,” Peter says, coming down the stairs.

“We were nineteen with four kids. I needed a fucking break,” Barton says. He turns back to Phil . “Some people say it’s unnatural for a boy to grow up without brothers. My buddy was telling me about a study that proved brotherless boys play with their sisters’ dolls and turn gay. Happened to my cousin Beckett, I think.”

“We went over this, Dad. Saying shit like that is homophobic,” Wanda says.

“It’s not homophobic if it’s the truth, Wanda. I respect gay people plenty. Why do you care anyway? You’re bi, not gay, and you’re  _ always  _ telling me that bi and gay aren’t the same thing. I am trying to be an ally—“

“You can’t  _ turn  _ gay, Clint,” Peter says. “Having sisters doesn’t make you gay.”

“So what does, then?”

“Genetics? I don’t fucking know.” Peter peers over his stepdad’s shoulder. “You missed a signature. See? Yeah, right there.”

“Thanks, kid.” Barton scrawls another chicken-scratch signature and hands the form to Phil . Phil adds the last piece of paper to the file. Biting back a sigh, he rises to his feet.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours with Yelena. Her foster parents are going to give you some clothes and a case of diapers,” he says. “Do you guys think you can manage for the first couple days without any other baby stuff?”

Barton says, “We’re fine. Didn’t you see all the kids running around here? We have more than enough baby shit.” 

“I’ll wash some of Morgan’s old baby clothes. We already have the crib bedding going,” Lila says. 

“Tell her foster parents we said thanks for the diapers and clothes,” Wanda says.

Phil nods. He pulls out a business card and leaves it on the table. “Call me if there’s any issues. I can connect you with resources if you need help with childcare.”

“Thanks. See you soon,” Barton says. “We’re excited to meet the little one.”

Judging by the look on his oldest daughter’s face, Phil knows that not every Barton is pleased about the new addition. He says, “She’s a sweet kid. Good sleeper, according to her foster mom. Well, I should be heading out.”

“Two hours, you said?” Peter asks.

Phil nods. He opens the front door and waves awkwardly. “Be back soon.”

The Bartons call out farewells in a mixture of Russian and English.

* * *

Despite his reservations, Phil smiles when he sets Yelena in Barton’s lap for the first time. The man coos at her and plants a kiss on her head. He signs to her enthusiastically with one hand. 

“We’ll have to start teaching her ASL as soon as possible,” Barton comments.

“Do they pick it up as you sign to them?” Phil asks. He took several child development courses in college, but the curriculum was not inclusive to children who are hard-of-hearing or have hard-of-hearing parents. He has not worked with hard-of-hearing children younger than the age of seven.

“Yeah, it’s just like English. They learn by watching people communicate in sign. Ideally, you should start signing around them at birth. They start ‘babbling’ with their hands at six months and then start signing at seven or eight months. She’ll pick it up quick,” Barton says.

“Knowing multiple languages is amazing for a child’s development,” Phil says. “You’re doing her a huge favor in the long-run.”

Barton gestures to Peter, who is sitting right next to him on the couch. “Petya here grew up using four languages, and he’s a freaking genius.”

“Four? That’s very impressive,” Phil says. “What languages do you speak?”

“Russian, Romanian, English, and ASL,” Peter says.

“Trying to talk to him as a toddler was a headache. One time, he only knew the Romanian word for milk, and he screamed and cried until we called his dad to translate for us,” Clint chuckles. 

His preschool-aged daughter puts her hands on his knees. “I wanna see baby sister,” she says.

Peter reaches over and scoops her onto his lap. She peers at Yelena. 

“What do you think, squirt?” Clint asks.

“Is cute,” she says. 

“Say ‘She’s cute,’ Morgan,” Wanda says.

“She’s cute,” Morgan says, scowling at her older sister. “No cry. Nattie say babies cry,” she comments. 

Clint’s brow furrows. “She’s right. Most of you guys cried unless Wanda or Pietro were the ones holding you.”

Phil flinches at the raw emotion in the glare Wanda shoots her father. “Gee, Dad, I wonder why?”

“Babies are fussy as hell. I went to prison when Lila was, what, six months old? God, Li, you hated me when I first got out. Poor kid,” Clint says with a chuckle.

Before Wanda can respond, Phil says, “Yelena’s bounced between a few foster homes. A lot of babies become desensitized after a while. And her life before she was taken by DCFS was rather...chaotic.”

Pietro snorts. “Chaotic is one way to describe it. The Belovs live in a fucking trap house. They have four couches in their front yard. I’m surprised Yelena wasn’t taken from Janna at birth. There’s no fucking way she could put the needle down during her pregnancy.”

“She was born in the bathtub, actually,” Phil says. “Yelena was taken away by DCFS after her first wellness appointment with the pediatrician.”

Lila scrubs a hand against her face. “Bathtub’s not bad. Mama had Coop on the trampoline. It took two gallons of bleach to clean it off.”

“Pietro and I were in the hospital, Lila and Peter were on the kitchen table, Nattie was in an actual hospital, and then she had Morgan on an air mattress Uncle Barney stole when her water broke,” Wanda says, counting off on her fingers. 

“The bathtub was probably the most sanitary, honestly. Cook County General’s maternity ward is vile,” Clint says.

“Yeah, but it was the  _ Belovs’  _ house. I think  _ Djadja _ Arkadii showers once a year,” Peter says.

Phil bites back a sigh. Before the Bartons can say anything that would make him schedule a surprise home visit, he says, “I think Yelena is all set. I’ll be back in a couple weeks to check in with you guys and see how she is transitioning into her home. Mr. Barton, keep meeting with your parole officer and passing those drug tests. Remember, you’re the only one keeping this kid out of a foster home.”

“I will, Mr. Coulson,” Barton promises, his goofy grin dropped for once. “I love the kid to death already. No way am I letting her rot away in some stranger’s house.”

Coulson stands up and shakes his hand. “I’ll be back in two weeks,” he repeats. “Call me if you have any questions.”

Pietro jabs a thumb towards the kitchen. “Your card’s taped to the fridge.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” Wanda says.

Phil’s eyes dart between the two of them. “I know,” he says before he walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing betas are Astro_cat13 and Chimrik.
> 
> My tumblr is @enchantingwriting
> 
> if you want, go check out my other fic “why can’t the past just die”!
> 
> I wanted to put a disclaimer and say that I am not Jewish. I am doing my best to research and learn as much about Judaism as I can for this story. I would never want to misrepresent or disrespect a religion and those who believe in it. If anything I ever write is inaccurate or offensive, please let me know in the comments and I will make immediate adjustments. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this! As always, feel free to further educate me in the comments as I navigate writing about sensitive topics. I love hearing from different perspectives and gaining access to new information. I do my best to research and be as accurate as possible, but there is always room for improvement.
> 
> Names and ages of all the kids:  
> Pietro - 19  
> Wanda - 19  
> Peter - 15  
> Lila - 14  
> Cooper - 10  
> Nate - 6  
> Morgan - 4  
> Yelena - 7 months

**Author's Note:**

> My wonderful betas are Astro_cat13 and Chimrik.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this! As always, feel free to further educate me in the comments as I navigate writing about sensitive topics. I love hearing from different perspectives and gaining access to new information. I do my best to research and be as accurate as possible, but there is always room for improvement.
> 
> Additional notes:  
> \- Morgan and Nate's grammar mistakes are meant to highlight the unique challenges some kids in multilingual households face.  
> \- Pietro is based on Evan Peters' Peter Maximoff in X-Men.  
> \- Some scenes will be heavily inspired by Shameless, but the plot is mostly independent of the show.


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